


dial v for violence

by hotmilkytea



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 1987), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2012), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, because he has tasted blood and must have death, everything i write has zero resolution or continuity and just references unresolved tv show angst, murdernardo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 15:32:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12729288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotmilkytea/pseuds/hotmilkytea
Summary: Leonardo has tasted blood and thirsts for violence.Naturally, it's Donnie to the rescue.





	dial v for violence

**Author's Note:**

> because you know this happened.

The phone-call is annoying for three reasons:

1) Who actually  _calls_  anymore? Just text!

2) April is here, and she has barricaded Donnie into the lab,  _away_ from his work on pain of decaf coffee, and plopped him in front of a stream of  _Ancient Aliens_ , and he is getting irate, outraged, and laughing his ass off in turn.

3)  _April is here_  and Donnie might not be the hellbent-crushing sap he was three years ago, but… well. She’s  _April_. And part of Donnie will never be able to help that. 

So. Donnie thinks he’s privately a little justified with being annoyed when his tPhone rings, falls silent, and then immediately rings again.

“Donatello,” he snaps, with an apologetic glance at April, and then, “oh  _god_ ” when the other person starts to talk.

“Hello, Donatello!” says the cheery voice of his alternate menace. “It’s me, Donatello!”

“…hi,” Donnie says grudgingly. Then, “How can I help?”

“We have a problem here!” says his counterpart, still cheerily, but with a slight edge of Concern — a tiny hint that maybe, maybe Donnie could help out, please, thank you and please again.

“Why–  _how_  are you even calling me?”

“Oh, I stole one of your spare interdimensional SIM cards before we left,” the other Donatello says breezily. “It took a while for me to fit it to my Turtle Comm – is  _everything_  so small in your dimension?”

“The magic of technology,” Donnie grits out, and pointedly turns his shell – April has dragged her hair up around her head in a ginger version of the aliens guy saying  _ALIENS_  and Donnie can’t deal with that right now. “How can I help?”

“We have a problem,” Donatello says again, and in the background, something screams. It sounds an awful lot like Donatello’s Michelangelo. “May I ask a question about your Leonardo?”

“Uhhhh, sure?”

“What’s his body-count?”

Five minutes later, when Donnie finally gets off the phone with a promise of  _I’ll be right there, yes, I’ll bring the restraints,_ no _, I won’t bring pizza_ , he turns to April with a rictus instead of a smile. 

“April,” Donnie says, sweetly and stressed. “My sweet, precious, mayhem-seeking missile. How do you feel about going on a business trip?”

* * *

Donatello is waiting for them on the other side of the portal when Donnie steps through, April right behind him, and privately, Donnie has to admit – Donatello, and his brothers, look much better in the strange flatness of their homeworld than they do in Donnie’s, where they look more like something that lost a fight with a balloon artist than an average, healthy mutant turtle. 

On the flip side, however, Donnie rotates his wrists – he doesn’t just look flat, he  _feels_  it, in his bones and joints. When he glances to his side, April looks – well, she’s April, so she looks perfect and lovely as always, but she too looks uncomfortable at the sudden change in dimensional space and form. 

“So, tell me again what happened,” Donnie says, as they walk.

Donatello does, about how ever since they got home, Leonardo has been unusually eager to sharpen his swords, and not always pulling his punches so much in training, and, well, he’s got this  _really_ unsettling laugh now, that he’s been practising in his bedroom at very inconvenient hours.

“—and, oh, hello Master Splinter!” Donatello breaks off cheerily, as they step into the Lair’s living room.

Donnie doesn’t have time to steel himself for the wrench to twist in his stomach. Somewhere in the back of his brain, he thinks that maybe he should have expected it — where there are four turtles, there is inevitably a Splinter, but equally, part of him maybe thought that this was something common to all worlds; that all Splinters would die, and all turtles would be left alone. 

April takes in a sharp, short breath, but Donnie barely hears it over the sound of his own pounding heart, and this other rat saying, “Welcome home, Donatello.” 

It has been so long since he heard that, but the voice, the tone, the timbre, is  _wrong, wrong, wrong_.

Donatello bows, as this other Splinter opens one eye, then another, gently easing out of meditation. “Ah. We have a visitor.”

Donnie bows, politely. “This is the other Donatello,” Donatello says. “From the other world we visited. And this is the other April!”

“A different world, indeed,” says this not-Splinter, eyeing Donnie in a way that makes him feel exposed, like an impostor. “I take it you have come for Leonardo.”

“Uh. Y-yeah,” Donnie stammers, having to choke down the automatic reaction of  _hai, sensei_! before it can come bubbling up — this man is  _not_  his sensei. “Donatello called us up after he uh. Did the thing.”

This other Splinter’s face darkens slightly, as the other Donatello makes a nervous shifting. “Yes. We are fortunate to have friends in high places.”

“Our April spun a cover story,” Donatello explains. “Leonardo’s this way.” 

He turns and ducks through a round opening, and Donnie shuffles after him, ducking even lower. “You okay?” April whispers, her hand brushing gently against his as they walk. Donnie doesn’t answer, just grabs her hand and squeezes it once. April squeezes back, and Donnie soaks in the comfort she offers — just this once, just a tiny bit of selfishness for  _now_ , and he can feel guilty about it later. 

At first glance, there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with Leonardo — he’s sitting placidly, meditating, and okay he’s still got his swords on indoors, but Donnie puts that aside as another weird thing about this world — for such terrible fighters, they are always armed, at all hours of the day. 

Their Raphael glances up from his magazine. “Oh, great, the cavalry’s arrived,” he mutters. His arm is in a sling. “Psycho’s over there.” He points with a band-aid-covered toe towards Leonardo. 

“No duh,” Donnie swipes back, then clears his throat. “Okay, let’s get this over with. What happened with the school bus?”

Leonardo looks at him with an unsettling amount of joy: “It was  _violent_!” he enthuses. “Thank you for teaching me your  _ways_!”

* * *

Things go about as well as can be predicted. Leonardo extolls the virtues of what can only be described as A Bloodbath, a bruised Michelangelo asks him to use his swords to slice up the latest delivery of pizza, with predictable results, and this world’s version of Casey Jones turns up, with terrible hair and a real lack of an inside voice. 

“How long have we been here?” Donnie asks, once Casey Jones, Raphael and Michelangelo have gone out on an adventure to re-enact a terrible Western movie.

April checks her tPhone. “About an hour.”

Donnie chokes back a sob. “Couldn’t just leave it, could you, Donnie,” he mutters bitterly to himself. “Oh, no, leave it to Donnie, good ol’ Donnie’ll get right to work, yes sirree, I’ll help.” He glances imploringly at April. “Why do I want to be a good person?”

“Someone has to be. Do we need to get back anytime soon? Won’t Leo be worried?”

“Oh, I left a note. But they probably won’t even notice I’m gone.”

“Donnie…” April warns, rubbing his bicep. 

Donnie shakes her off with an “It’s fine, really,” and picks up his bo. “Leonardo,” he prompts, and the turtle looks up from where Donatello — this world’s Donatello — has put him in an ankle tag and locked him to the wall. “C’mon, I want to see what you’ve learned.”

Leonardo steps out of the ankle tag, seemingly unhindered, even though it’s wired into a four-foot-tall computer that’s plugged into the mains. 

Donnie stares, then glances to Donatello, who shrugs.

* * *

Leonardo’s swordwork is marginally better than Donnie remembers, but there’s an edge to it now that Donnie doesn’t. When Donnie and his brothers train, there’s always a bit of restraint to it — they know that when they go up to the streets, they’re playing for real, but here, it’s  _training_. You  _mean_  to stab the guy in the thigh, but you don’t actually _do_  it, when the ‘guy’ is Mikey.

(Raph, maybe.)

Leonardo gets that creepy, disjointed smile again, and  _laughs_ , and comes for Donnie’s face. 

Donnie squawks, but brings his bo up in time, shoving Leonardo back, but Leonardo comes again, and again, and  _again_. “ _Death_!” he yells, with far too much enthusiasm for Donnie’s liking. 

“ _No_ ,” Donnie says firmly, planting his thankfully larger foot in the middle of Leonardo’s plastron and shoving him away with a kick before Leonardo goes for his ankle. “Alright, drop the swords, it’s learning time.”

Leonardo looks at him blankly. “Drop…?”

“The swords, yes, put the oversized cake-cutters down and grab a pencil.  _DO IT_ ,” he finally snaps, knocking a sword away into the wall when Leonardo tries to drop said sword by throwing it at Donnie’s eye.

They break for lunch instead.

Donatello plaps off to talk to their April on the Turtle Comm (their names are ridiculous. everything here is  _ridiculous_ , Donnie thinks despairingly, while equally trying to rein himself in from asking about this world’s April, and is she, possibly, the one who is partial to jumpsuits? because Donnie, himself, personally, is an aficionado of a good jumpsuit, and would she like to meet his April— his world’s April, ahem — because she looks  _very_  good in a jumpsuit).

Leonardo is humming merrily on the other side of the kitchen table, slicing an apple into smaller and smaller pieces with larger and larger knives, and Donnie is casually watching from around the corner, behind a very, very thick wall. “Okay,” he says to April. “I’m open to ideas.”

“Sedation,” April says with a shrug. “Neutering?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna need less of the pet shop and more of the actually useful solutions,” Donnie snaps, then immediately dials it back off April’s shitlook. “C’mon, your dad’s a psychologist, isn’t there anything you can think of?”

April shrugs, a little helplessly. “Sorry, D, all the coping techniques my dad taught me were about trauma and post-traumatic stress, not  _tried to eat a baby_.”

“Pre-schooler,” Donnie corrects tiredly. “Pre-school _er_ s.”

April huffs a little through her nose; when Donnie peers up at her from his exhausted slump, she’s smiling ruefully. “C’mon, let’s go for a walk,” she offers instead, tilting her head towards the sewer exit. “Clear our heads.”

* * *

“They’re  _moonwalking_ ,” Donnie says in despair, half an hour later. Down in front of the building he and April are perched on (April can walk here, in the sun and on the ground, but instinct and a life of horrors has taught Donnie that he can never,  _ever_  do that), this world’s Michelangelo and Raphael are, indeed, moonwalking down the Bowery. 

April pats his shoulder in sympathy. 

“I should just let them die,” Donnie moans, and sinks to the ground. 

“Why don’t you?”

They both know why Donnie can’t just let them all die. Donnie has to save everyone, as much as he can, as best as he can. “How am I supposed to appeal to that idiot’s sense of logic when — oh my god they have a  _sound system_  are they  _trying_  to get caught!?”

Down below, a random passer-by skateboards past and gives Michelangelo a high-five. 

Donnie swallows the wordless shriek of rage; it’s not just anger at how flagrantly they stroll down the sidewalk, or that they’re now beatboxing to some  _truly awful_  hip-hop in broad daylight… but it’s jealousy, too. Whatever is different about this world compared to Donnie’s… it’s flat and weird and there’s something  _off_  in the physical make-up of all who dwell here…

…but these sentient balloons have more freedom than Donnie will  _ever_  have.

He grits his teeth, digs his fingernails into the callouses on his palm. He will  _never_  have this. 

April rests her hand on his arm, a wordless question. “They talk about honour,” Donnie snits. “Honour, and  _turtle power_. We’re supposed to be  _ninjas_. We live and die in the shadows, but sure, stand on the street corner and  _eat a hot dog_ ,” he almost screams, snarling it at the last second instead. 

“Maybe that’s their thing for this world. Maybe that’s what you need to remind them of. Honour,” April prompts, after a pause. 

“We’re  _ninjas_ ,” Donnie reminds her. 

“So consider this  _bouryaku_.”

“Really? You’re going to start listing off the eighteen disciplines?” Donnie folds his arms. “Here’s another:  _intonjutsu_  — I quit.”

April just looks at him. “No, you don’t,” she says. “You never do.” She waits until Donnie relents, then hits him with a soft, quiet, “It worked for me.”

Donnie’s brain skids.

They  _don’t talk_ about Za-Naron. Sometimes Donnie thinks he would like to, but realises that he doesn’t really know what to say. And he doesn’t know if April feels the same, and either way, maybe they’ve danced around the subject too long now that the moment has passed, long enough that it’ll always linger between them, like a scar on their hearts. 

But then there are moments like this, when April mentions it, just once, and Donnie feels his heart go cold, and his bones heat up, and for a moment, his stomach is weightless, and he remembers everything about that night, right up until he stopped remembering  _anything_. 

April fidgets the longer Donnie stares. “I’m just saying. If honour is something that he cares about, then maybe reminding him of it will. You know.”

Donnie mentally, but not verbally, fills in the blank of  _maybe it will bring him back from murderous urges and world domination_. 

April isn’t looking at him; instead, she’s looking over the city — this fake, flat world — and Donnie forces himself to swallow all of his discomfort. 

He doesn’t get to complain. 

April had that thing in her head and her heart, for  _months_ ; and— 

—and April brought him back. So doesn’t that mean something?

He clears his throat gently. “We can try,” he offers. “But honestly, I don’t think these guys are smart enough.”

April snorts, leaning over and bumping her shoulder against his arm lightly. 

* * *

By the time they get back underground, Donnie’s worked out sort of a plan, and by the time they get back into the kitchen, the sewer smells of ozone and coffee, and—

“Oh, there you are!” Donatello says cheerfully, looking up from what is either a My First Nuclear Holocaust, or a home-made Keurig. “Right on time!”

“We literally walked out of the lair without telling you,” April says. “Weren’t you worried we’d just  _left_?”

“Of course not, April!” Donatello says, confused, adding, “It’s not in the script. C’mon, grab a snack, and let’s fix Leonardo!”

He turns and walks off in the direction of their pet maniac. April glances at Donnie, shrugs, and follows.

Donnie sighs. 

He leans over, snagging an apple out of the bowl on the kitchen table, and follows the others into dojo.

* * *

Leonardo is still smiling that manic smile when Donnie sits in front of him, rolling the apple in his hands. “Hello, Donatello!” he says eagerly. “Let’s spar!”

Donatello makes a very quick, silent exit. “No thanks!”

Donnie frowns at his retreating shell, then turns back to the other turtle. “No. Let’s  _learn_.”

“About what?”

“Your favourite topic,” Donnie says.

“PIzza?” he asks. 

“No. Leonardo,” Donnie says tersely, “what do turtles fight with?”

Leonardo starres blankly.

“He’s talking about  _honour_ ,” Raphael says, from the doorway. “Turtles fight with  _honour_.” Donnie turns his head; the other turtle is leaning against the round doorframe, trying to look painfully uninterested and only looking constipated instead. There is mustard on the side of his mouth, and Donnie takes a private, spiteful joy in not telling him about it.

“My point is,” Donnie continues, still rolling the apple. “violence can be good, but you’ve gotta  _control_  it. Take April, for example.”

He tosses the apple into the air.

April doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. But the apple stops in mid-air for a moment, hovers, and then implodes with a squelch and a puff of juice.

Leonardo’s eyes light up. “ _Yes_!”

“Yes,” Donnie agrees, “but  _no_. Because that is an apple. What do we do with apples, Leonardo?”

“ _m u r d e r_ ”

“No. Apples are  _food_. Or practise material. But my point is, April has the power to crush apples — and faces — with her brain. Do you know why she doesn’t do it all the time?”

Slowly, Leonardo shakes his head. Donnie sighs, finally giving in to the urge to drop his head into his hands. “Look around. How many bad guys do you see?”

(Michelangelo sticks his head into the room. Says “Nope, I am so totally not here for this, dudes.” 

Leaves very quickly.)

“How many  _bad guys_?” Donnie prompts, once Michelangelo is at a safe distance. “Not brothers. Not nice humans in well-fitting jumpsuits.”

(“Donnie.”

“Sorry.”)

The penny finally drops. “Ohhhhhhh,” Leonardo says, leaning back and nodding sagely, and Donnie follows up with:

“—and even  _then_ , you gotta pick a time and a place and a target. Like, the Purple Dragons. Murdering them to death won’t do any good, because they’re just kinda— I dunno—”

“Pathetic?” April offers.

“Pathetic!” Donnie agrees. “It’s like taking candy from a baby — you just don’t do it. It’s  _easy_  to do, and that’s why you don’t.”

Leonardo looks at them, confused. “But this city is  _full_  of  _dishonour_ ,” he says, plaintively. “I must cleanse it!”

Raphael clears his throat pointedly. A clock ticks. The silence drags on. Donnie’s heart sinks a little.

“You know something, D?” April says, breaking the silence. “Maybe he’s got a point. I have an idea. Hey, you.” She snaps her fingers at Raphael. “Get me a map.”

“April?” Donnie asks, a little nervously; Leonardo has slowly started to  _smile_ , and Donnie has quickly started to feel terror. “Honeybun? What are you doing?”

“Do you trust me?” she asks.

“ _Always_ ,” Donnie says.

“Then let me try handling this.”

* * *

They resolve to never talk about what happened in the prison yard.

Or about how Donnie got airsick in the Turtle Blimp.

But amid the nightmares of his balloon-monster brother having far too much fun shutting down a prison riot, Donnie will treasure the memories of  _April_ , incandescent with majesty, right in the centre of it.

* * *

Leonardo stares placidly around the kitchen, his hands wrapped around a mug of tea, smiling as though a fog is lifting. Finally, Donnie goes in for the killing blow:

“What do turtles fight with?”

Leonardo squints slowly. “Ho…nour. Honour!”

“Very good! What  _don’t_  we fight with?”

Leonardo sulks. In the background, Donnie hears this world’s Raphael snark, “Wow. Check out Dr. Phil here.”

Donnie ignores him. Then thinks again, and flips him off. “Leonardo. What  _don’t_  we fight with?”

Very grudgingly, Leonardo sighs, and says, wistfully, “ _skulls_.”

* * *

The lab, when Donnie and April get back, is undisturbed.  _Ancient Aliens_ is still paused on the monitor, and their snacks are undisturbed. A small glow of loneliness chills him for a second – for all the alternate weirdos are  _weird_ , they’re always together, and they at least seem to  _like_  each-other, to a point.

But then April pats his shoulder, padding over to her seat, fully three-dimensional once more. “See, that wasn’t so bad, now, was it?”

“I mean, I guess, but– April– why?”

He doesn’t need to clarify what he means by  _why_  – April’s psychic, and more than that, she  _knows_  him. Why him, why Za-Naron? Why tell him that story, when in the end they just set Leonardo loose anyway?

“I forgot,” April said, with a careful shrug. “Why the others could get through to me in the end.”

“Forgot what?” Donnie asks, cautiously, so cautious, of this new piece of information. 

April shrugs again. “I was tired. I’d been fighting it for so long, and then I was fighting you and the others– and then you were–  _gone_. I was  _tired_.”

“Like, emotionally, or…?”

April doesn’t answer that. Instead, she just smiles sadly, like she’s already said too much, and anything else will just make things worse. “C’mon, let’s watch the end of the show,” she says.

“Yeah, okay,” Donnie agrees, watching her go. “Just a sec.”

He pulls out his phone and very firmly, very decidedly, blocks Donatello’s number. 

* * *

the end.


End file.
